Dangerous Events
by YourDepressedPenPal
Summary: Thirteen does a dangerous thing. T for minor words.


Why does this always happen to you?

Is it some God's way of sending you some divine message?Are you just a popular target for tragedies and life-threatening situations? Or are you just somehow being thrown into coincidence after coincidence? If you are, you have really bad odds. Life must hate you. Hell, the whole universe must have some unresolved vendetta against you. Maybe it's just been your predisposition since birth. Oh she's had a terrible life, what could make it worse? Let's throw everything at her, see how she holds up.

No way. You're not going to stand for it. This time, you're not laying down or aiding it. This time you're going to fight.

Determinedly you unbuckle your too tight seat-belt and try to unwedge yourself from the uncomfortable position of being pinned against the steering wheel. When you had slammed on the brakes, the wet pavement had been merciless. You had spun out until you hit the car in front of you. The airbag had not deployed. Wincing, you searched blindly for the lever to pull the seat back while thinking about suing the offending car manufacturer. Your hands are freezing and you fight shivering from the icy wind that seeps through the broken wind-shield. Your hand reaches the lever and you yank it upwards, pushing back as you do so.

Instant relief. You're free to breathe as space emerges between you and the dashboard. You massage your shoulder and your chest as you savor the fresh air. They both ache from the crash. Next, you have to open the door. You pull on the door handle and it gives. The door does not move. Peering out of the window you see another car has smashed up against it. Cursing mentally, you bring your knees up to your chest and kick to windshield. It cracks but otherwise stays intact. Repeatedly you slam your feet against the glass, over and over. With a loud crack and the shattering of glass, you're out. Never had you been more grateful for wearing boots.

Slowly, you poke your head out of the window and try to see past the two cars in front of you. Swearing softly, you realize you're going to have to get out of the car before you can see what had happened. Pulling your head back inside, you analyze how to get out for a couple seconds. Feet first, you decide. You sit uncomfortably on your heels as you grab the dash and the armrest. Satisfied with your position, you poke your boots out. Next you legs, then your waist, then your torso. Lastly, your head is out and you are crouching on top of that car that had trapped you inside in the first place. With a crunch of metal, you stand uneasily.

The place looks like hell.

Cars are piled on top of each other and flames flicker. You hear screaming and shouting. Terrified wails come from everywhere and they overwhelm you. The voices screaming the loudest are in agony from the sound of it. There are no EMS personnel, no emergency vehicles of any kind. It's mass panic. Your eyes adjust to absorb all the little things. People are running blindly. Most of them are running away from something. You can't tell what. You hop off of the car and start to go towards the middle so you can see what's going on. People run towards you, fear stricken. Some are crying, some are screaming. You had to look away as a little girl cries for her mother standing alone near a smoking car.

As you walk, some part of your brain is screeching_, What the hell do you think you're doing? Going toward the thing everyone is running away from! Do you want to die?_ You ignore the small voice as you walk on. The cold wind bites at your face and hands. Drawing your coat in tighter you try to maneuver around another burning car. You're tempted to stand there and bask in the warmth, but you know it's not safe. As you draw nearer, you see flames. Not that it really surprises you, that's all you've been seeing for the whole walk. The thing that scares you, that sends your heart up into your throat, is that it's a gasoline tanker. Explosive signs are patched everywhere on the vehicle. The flames are licking up the side of the tank.

Your hands start to shake and sweat forms on your brow despite how frigid the air around you is. You know you should back away, preferably run, but something inside you has paralyzed. You can't move and your feet feel like they weigh a ton. Your legs have turned to iron and your heart does double time in your chest. You stare at the flames almost mesmerized. They flicker and wave back and forth in a hypnotic pattern. Something shakes you and shatters your staring.

"Ma'am, you need to move!" A man says hurriedly. His face is set into shadow from the flames. It brought out the wrinkles in his forehead as he looks at you. He is wearing a heavy jacket with stripes. His face has gray smudges and he distinctly smells of smoke. It hits you, he's a firefighter. The flames and smoke must have obscured the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles.

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt, "I'm a doctor." When you say this, he looks at you dubiously, like he doesn't believe you. You wouldn't either. "I work at the Princeton Plains-borough Teaching Hospital, I'm Dr. Remy Hadley, so tell me where I can help," you continue. His expression clears but still he seems a little skeptical. Apparently, they don't have many people on sight because he tells you where to go.

"There's a man on the other side of this tanker. It's dangerous, but we need someone over there to reach him and stabilize him. A witness said he had head trauma," he ordered, "This is all I can tell you. No one else is in the area. Do you think you can do it?" He asks. They must be desperate to ask you to do something like this. You're not even sure it's allowed. Before you can think to much, you nod. He gives you a pat on the back and points you in the right direction. He gives you a small CB radio, and sends you off. As you walk away he yells, "Godspeed."

You shrug off the anxiety and turn around to watch him run off to another desperate situation. You start to trudge toward the burning tanker. Every step you take, you tense further. You are afraid that while you get close to the flames, it will all explode. Slowly you get to the side of the truck. Before you can do anything, you hear a groan. Ignoring the mass of burning metal beside you, you dart over to the dark figure lying on the ground. Blood is seeping out of his head. Throwing around a glance, you take off your jacket and attempt to staunch the bleeding. You check his pupil dilation as best as you can, improvising by pointing his head towards the fire. It's normal. No concussion from what you can tell. You survey his body for other injuries and sigh in relief when you find none.

Grabbing for the CB radio you say into it, "I have a male in mid-30s with a laceration to the head, on the east side of the tanker. Can you send a team in?"

There is a moment before a voice responds over the crackly radio, "Negative. We can have a team on standby at the other side. Only two people. No gurney. You will have to move him, over."

You wonder why he didn't ask who it was. This was not the same man as before. You are puzzled, but you know now is not the time. "Okay, but I'm going to need some gauze or something."

The man waits a couple seconds before responding with, "Will do, Chief out," So he was the fire chief, you muse. Interesting. Gathering the jacket's sleeves you tie them tightly around the man's head to keep it on. You shiver as you yank on his arms. He's lucid enough to see what you're doing and try to stand up as well. After more heaves, you have his arm on your shoulder and your arm around his waist, half-dragging him through the opening in between the tanker and another collision site. He's very slow and cumbersome, but at least he helps you walk along. Your shoulder aches at the pressure he's causing and the exertion and smoke is irritating your lungs. By the time you reach the other side, you're coughing.

The firefighters guide you out. A whole team is there fighting to put out the fire and prevent an explosion. Two nervous figures stand as far away from the tanker as they could. As you get closer, you see they aren't in fact paramedics or EMS personnel. They look like normal people. One woman and a man.

"Are you the team?" you sputter out. They nod their heads nervously. "Are you doctors?" you ask as you hand the guy off to the man. The guy staggers a little under the added weight. The man nods hesitantly while the woman shakes her head. "Great," you grumble. "Where is everybody?" you ask.

The man replies in a deep soothing voice, "They're over there. You can follow us if you'd like," he suggests. You nod. He lays the injured male down while he takes out some gauze from a small satchel he was carrying. Applying the gauze he wraps some more around the guy's head and starts to lift him again. Sparing one last glance, you turn to leave with the man and the woman. They both take an arm and hobble off. Your coughing acts up again. You choke out a small, "Wait!" before it cripples you. Each hack has you gasping for air and it grates your throat and leaves a tearing sensation behind. Once the sharp coughs had subsided into a rasp, you look up. They hadn't heard you and had left. You start off the direction you thought you saw them go.

The smoke thickens and you can't see two feet in front of you. You can only see behind you the glow of the burning truck. It seems to grow. You start to wheeze as your asthma acts up. Your throat burns as you breathe in smoke. You're stumbling around now. Bumping into cars and shards of metal. You have cuts on your hands and legs as you brace yourself from falling and seriously injuring yourself. All you can see is gray and outlines of things. The smoke is really picking up. You fear you will die from smoke inhalation. Eyes watering you bring your hands up to your mouth and roll your sleeves over them. It helps, marginally. Tears blur your vision as you cough and stumble. You don't know where you're going.

You're lost.

As you wander helplessly, you turn back. You weren't as far from the scene as you thought. You feel it more than you see it. A loud bang rings out. You feel a rumble and you hear a loud roar, like an airplane engine. You're picked up like a little rag doll and thrown several paces back. Your breath whooshes out of your lungs as you land. You feel the impact on the car and you feel the shards of the broken windshield glass prick your back. Finally, you see a bright orange flash over you and it all fades to black.

* * *

When you wake up for a brief moment, everything is muffled. You can't really see anything but blurred and distorted shapes dancing in front of your eyes. Your ears have a high pitched ringing in them that doesn't stop. You can hear your heart in your ears. It thumps loudly and quickly. Somehow, you're seeing everything, but you aren't. You see something bright to your left. Something dark is moving quickly to your right. You can't tell what it is.

You close your eyes and sink into less confusing dreams.

* * *

This time, you wake up for a longer period of time. The ringing in your ears has died down but sound is muted. You blink repeatedly to try to bring the world into focus. It refuses. You stagger to a semi-standing position as you slide off of the car you slammed into. You are more numb than anything. The world spins and you fight back the nausea that accompanies it. Blindly, you stumble forward into the gray film. You crash into car after car and trip often. It's like you're almost sleepwalking. You know you're awake, but somehow the world has a dreamlike quality to it. Nothing seems to really affect you or get through the fog in your overworked brain. You collapse after a few more steps. Colors are dull as you lay there. You think you see the flash of blue and red.

You don't really know.

* * *

The next time you open your eyes a piercing light stabs through the crack in your eyelids. Sounds are clearer and the ringing is faint. Closing your eyes again you try to gather the willpower to open them again. Your body is jolted as you feel yourself being lifted. You hear somebody talking in the background. Knots form in your stomach. Your back feels torn up and your left arm hurts. You also have a nasty, pounding headache.

"Female, mid to late 20's, no ID, " the voice continued in a rushed but calm voice to a person out of your line of sight. All the while you're moving somewhere. You try to open your eyes again. They flutter open to the scene in front of you. You're on a stretcher being rushed into an ER from what you could tell. Your neck itches from the head brace and it restricts your head movement. An oxygen mask covers your face. You want it off. You reach up to rip it off when a hand reaches out to stop you from moving around. You weakly struggle to get off of the stretcher. The hand easily holds you down. You give up in exhaustion.

As you're wheeled inside, lights flash by. It has a rhythm to it, and it calms you. A face floats over you. It figures. It's Dr. Cameron. Her green eyes flash with some sort of emotion you can't identify. She looks surprised and worried as she scrutinizes you. You just stare blankly back at her. It doesn't really stick who it is. You just feel like it's someone you've seen before, not really someone you know. A wave of deja vu almost.

"Thirteen?" she asks cautiously. You don't respond. She must see something in your dull eyes because she says urgently to someone, "This is Dr. Hadley, page Dr. House." She surveys you for a second more before she orders, "She's not a critical case, but she's not fair either. Take her over there, I'll get to her in a minute. The trauma team is too overloaded."

They wheel you over to an empty spot and shut the curtains as she walks away. This gives you some time to really look at yourself. Looking down as best you could with the brace, you examine what the paramedics have done. Your left forearm has gauze wrapped around it. Your back seems to have gauze over it also. You try to remove the neck brace, but a tug on your hand stops you. There is an IV in your arm. You don't recall having one inserted. You still have your oxygen mask on. All you can muster up is mild surprise at this conclusion. Looking up from your hand, you lazily watch ER attendants and victims from presumably the crash, being wheeled back and forth in front of you.

After only a small time of watching the bustling people in the ER, you see Dr. Cameron walking over. As she walks toward you, she's reading a file in her hand. She snaps it shut and gazes around before finally looking straight at you. She looks a bit disheveled, her hair mussed and she has a stain or two on her scrubs. After what's got to be the longest walk in history, she stops by your bedside. You can't help but think how creepy you must look staring at everything, so you turn your gaze to the ceiling tiles to the left.

"So, _Thirteen,_" she starts, stressing your nickname, "Your vitals are a bit shaky, you have a mild concussion so you're going to have to stay the night for observation. None of the CT's or MRI's are available anytime soon, and it seems like there's no outside indication of an internal injury anywhere besides the concussion. The brace is for mild whiplash," she trails off. You feel the urge to say something to her, anything, but you can't muster up the will. "Let me check you're injuries," she huffs, and your eyes snap to her at her tone. "Sit forward, please." You comply reluctantly and slowly, it is very hard to do. In fact, you sit up so slowly that Cameron gives you a very strange glance before she turns to look at the lacerations on your back.

"All the glass seems to be out," she states. "You can sit back." This time, she blatantly stares at you as you shift gradually back until you are half-laying, half-sitting again. "Okay, give me your arm," she enunciates slowly. Your face twists up minutely as you lift your arm over to her. She checks the cut for infection and deems it acceptable. It was a fairly deep wound. For awhile you two just sit in silence. Then she turns to look at you and says, "What the hell where you thinking?"

This shocks you enough through your mind that you utter a small, "What?" in confusion through the mask.

"It says here that you volunteered to run into the thick of the crash. A man talked to you and reported about it. Then, you find a guy, clean him up, and then you walk off!" she exclaims. "Witnesses saw you just stumble through the smoke and disappear!"

"Oh," you say quietly. She seems very compassionate about pushing her point, and for her to blow up like she is, she must think what you did was very, very stupid. You almost never talk to her. Only when necessary. So your just a bit surprised she's angry. You had always gotten the vibe she did not like you. Not particularly.

"Oh? That's all you have to say? First, a hostage situation, then a suicidal mission," she fumes, she's not too angry, you can tell. Your condition has made her go easy on you. She sighs heavily. "I paged House. He's probably not going to come. Even though he is in the hospital. Somewhere," she laughs bitterly as she adds this. It's very interesting, sitting here and listening to her. She's so much different like this. You can't put your finger on what the this is. You hadn't really noticed, (okay, you had, but you just didn't care) that you had been panting slightly. As you tried to ignore it, the panting turned into a slight wheezing. It was really hurting and each breath grates against the back of your burning throat. It wasn't the asthma, it you could tell. It was probably from the smoke you choked down from the explosion. It was loud enough to attract attention.

"You're wheezing," she states as she turns toward you again. In your mind you reply _You're Captain Obvious today. _She checks your oxygen and mutters, "Stupid idiots, can't even connect the oxygen line right." Your lips quirk upwards at this comment. Oxygen floods your lungs again and you take the deepest breath you can. Which is, admittedly, not a very deep breath at all. She sits up again and stares at you a moment. The oxygen gave you a bit of clarity and you felt like you could hold a small conversation.

"What are you staring at?" You wince at your voice. You sound like a chain smoker and your voice cracks twice. You try to swallow but your mouth is way to dry. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Cameron narrows her eyes at your voice.

She abruptly shakes her head and says, "Nothing,"

"Right, you've been staring at me since I sat back," you retort weakly. "Why?"

"No I haven't," she denies, standing hastily, "I have to go tend to the other crash victims."

"You're avoiding the question," you state.

"I am not!" She turns to leave. Panic pangs your heart.

"Wait!" you say a little louder. You want her to stay. You just want someone here, to tether you to this world while you float crazily. At least until you can take care of yourself.

She stops and turns back around. "Yes?"

It pains you to say it, but you really don't want to be alone. "Just... I... Can you..." You can't say it. You can't. The whole wall you've built up refuses to let you say it. It would go against everything you've built up. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it would. You still can't say it. You sigh in defeat and say, "Never mind."

"What?" she pesters.

"It's nothing." you reply shortly.

"I want to know."

"It's nothing okay!" you exclaim in frustration.

"Okay," she responds softly. "Do you want me to stay?"

Mustering up a good poker face, you try to shrug indifferently, but you hiss in pain as it moves your bruised shoulder. She gives you a little sad smile.

"You're maxed out on pain meds," she says. You nod in response, even though you don't remember anything about being given pain medication. You're headache has gone away slightly, now that you think of it. Your arm, back, and shoulder only twinge with pain occasionally. Moving is the only thing that sets it off. When she leaves you plan on finding some more morphine or anything. You're not an idiot. You cough weakly, and take a deep breath from the oxygen.

"I'll stay," she says randomly after watching you try and manage yourself after awhile. "Most of the victims are in, and I don't want you overdosing on morphine," she adds. You give her a confused glance.

"Okay," you rasp. She nods curtly and resumes her seat by you, staring at you a bit longer before turning her gaze to the people rushing by. Somehow, her presence comforts you.

And that scares the hell out of you.

* * *

**A.N. **I wasn't very satisfied with the ending. But I had to end it somewhere. This is probably going to be up for a forever. I'm not sure if I want to continue, because I'm terribly indecisive. Sometimes.

Review please! Tell me what you think!

**Add on 6/7/2010**

**_Due to fanfiction{DOT}net being very difficult, the stars separating the conscious/unconscious flashes has been replaced with a horizontal ruler._**


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